EVENT ∞ LOG — July 125

[thediadem]

Event ∞ Log

In the Flesh

Jump ⇅ :: Visits — First Contact — Hitchhikers — Notes

∞ Prologue ∞

It's not real, it's not real.

Somewhere in the Blocks, late at night, a young woman repeats the words over and over, fumbling with her room key. She doesn't dare look over her shoulder again, begging her hand to obey. Her fingers are stiff and smooth, and it makes each movement more difficult. Eventually, the door gives way. She stumbles into the apartment, slamming it behind her and locking several bolts.

Leaning back on the door, she lets her key ring fall to the linoleum as she holds her hand up to her face. It isn't just her fingers now. Painted plastic has taken over her entire right hand, spreading up her forearm toward a ball-jointed elbow that creaks painfully. She grabs her neck with her flesh hand, sucking in a sharp breath as she tries to steady her heart.

It's not real, it's not real...

She takes another breath, then turns on the light. The bulb flickers. Hazy light flood the room with an incessant buzz.

She freezes.

A figure stands in the opposite doorway. It doesn't move, stuck in a pose with an outstretched hand—one made of flesh and bone. Her hand.

She screams.

Info & Mechanics — NPC Forum Post — Event Interaction ::: ⇅ Top

Strange Visits

Panorama

For the first week or two of July, life goes on as usual. You have a lot on your plate—jobs, loans, rent, that creep who won't stop staring at you when you're filling up your car—and the last thing you've got time for is other people's problems. Or maybe you find room to listen, anyway? Whatever the case, it's mostly a lot of stories and pointing fingers: a shopkeeper accuses his friend of stealing from him, somebody claims their boss must've skipped town to avoid paying the employees, and a woman is frantic about her missing husband. He never goes anywhere without telling her.

If you decide to look into it, none of the incidents seem connected. After all, people frequently go missing in the Diadem, friends betray each other, and businesses often go bankrupt, leaving their workers to pick up the pieces. Funny thing, though: here and there, you swear you glimpse a figure who isn't entirely flesh. Their features are just...a bit odd. Is it your imagination? When you move in for a closer look, something gets in your way and the figure disappears.

On the other hand, you think to yourself, it's not as though everybody on this planet looks standard. If a man can have horns, why can't his skin also be a bit plasticky?

Use the Event Interaction comment any time you need specifics or some direction for an element you're engaging within the event. This can be an NPC victim your character is questioning, an aspect of the diffusion zone your character is testing, or anything along those veins. While you're encouraged to make things up on your own, too, if you're ever unsure of the results or the answers you might get, approach us there!

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First Contact

The Fringes

Inevitably, you take the risk and head back into the Fringes. It has what you need, and the bizarreness in Panorama isn't making the city feel like much of a refuge, either. Besides, long trips aren't unusual for anyone in the Diadem. As you drive, you might even find yourself reluctant to return to the city. After all, there's so much across the multitude of diffusion zones that regardless of how dangerous it can be, perhaps some part of you is attracted to the thrill of the unknown.

If the promise of loot isn't enough, a note on the Forum might be. Here, you'll scroll across a brief message from who else but the ever-eager Felix Bjurstrom, joined by his daughter, Olive "Ollie" Bjurstrom. (Looks like he's got a new phone again!) If nothing else, the investigative or curious nature in you gets you going. What if this is a piece of the puzzle you need to go home?

If you want your character to scavenge items, check how that works. The Map identifies where each Quadrant is located.

Among the Shadows — Abandoned Mall

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 10-hour drive from Panorama, a standard American shopping mall rises through the cracked and broken highway. A portion of its vast parking lot melts into the road ahead and behind. There are cars in the parking lot, each one perfectly preserved: no rust, no dust, nothing.

The mall's lights are on. The moment you step inside, you'll notice that you're not alone. Inside, shadow corpses are everywhere, frozen in time. Their bodies show no signs of distress. If you try to touch them, a dark, ashy residue coats your fingers. You see a young couple linking arms, a mother bending over to pick up her child, and a man ordering his last meal at the KFC. It's as though they all just...stopped. While eerie, whatever force swept through here is long gone.

The upside is that nobody will bother you while you look around—aside from other fluxdrifts, of course. The shops and their offerings are stuck in the 90's. Big electronics are cosmic touched, rendering them worthless, but smaller electronics like cassette tapes, CDs, and Walkmans are all viable. You can also grab clothes, snacks, and (cheap) jewelry.

And, as you pass by the store windows, you see many mannequins on display. That's normal, so you don't think twice. At least, until you swear one of them keeps moving around the store. Though its pose never changes, it almost appears to...follow you? That can't be right. You must be seeing things.

Zone Effects
Touching any of the frozen shadows will cause the victim to believe that their companion(s) have transformed into monstrous creatures. Attempts to approach you will only register as an attack rather than placating gestures, while words will sound like snarls or spoken threats. An induced panic will make it more difficult to think logically and see through the hallucination. The illusory creatures can take the form of anything that might frighten or threaten you the most.

You can break free of the illusion through a variety of methods, including your own willpower, being knocked out by your friends, or seeing/hearing something that makes you realize it isn't real. The hallucination isn't overly intense, but it can cause a bit of havoc among you and your companions...and increase the likelihood a mannequin might make contact unnoticed.

Wall of Refuge — Strange Temple

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 6-hour drive from Panorama—and on the way to the abandoned mall above—stands a geometric structure made of metal and stone. Sharp angles shoot up from the ground to form a distorted hexagon. The gateway is littered with sigils: some weathered by time, others freshly carved into the rocky surface. They glow when you drive forward, beckoning you closer. Come in, whispers an unknown compulsion in your mind. You are home.

You may succumb to the whispers for any number of reasons: sleep deprivation, desperation for a place to rest overnight, or a need to hide from raiders or dangerous creatures lurking in another nearby zone. Regardless, you give in and enter the triangular entrance. The stone gate lifts to grant you passage, revealing an effigy of a multi-limbed being. A deity? A symbol of power? Though you're unsure, you continue deeper. Your footsteps echo across the cavernous halls.

Behind you, the heavy gate slowly closes with a rumbling finality. Despite the chilly entranceway, the interior of the temple is warm and inviting. Candles line the walls. Fountains flow peacefully. You can enter one of the many rooms to find a soft bed, fresh cakes, succulent meat, and fine wine available for you. Behind a silk curtain is a steaming bath lined with soothing floral herbs and oils.

Meanwhile, throughout your explorations, you might sense a figure or a shadow in the passageway. A glimpse of shiny plastic appears oddly out of place in a temple of this kind.

Zone Effects

• If you are a believer and decide to trust the gifts bestowed upon you, then you may safely indulge. The wine will warm you up, the food will fill your belly, and you can sleep through the night. When you awaken, you can safely leave the temple refreshed. Your vehicle will be outside, untouched, as if some power within was protecting your belongings.
• If you are a heretic and doubt the offerings you've been graciously given, the gifts will begin to rot and all amenities will crumble to dust. The more your cynicism betrays you, the more the temple will take until nothing remains except the oddly textured walls bearing down on you. As you examine the surface, you realize the stone is built from a manifold of dozens—no, hundreds—of twisted bodies. Their arms are raised in reverence, piled upon each other like human bricks. Their gaping mouths are frozen in a silent scream. As for you and your companions...what fate will await the nonbeliever?

The Last Stop — Foggy Town

©

In Quadrant 4, about a 3-hour drive from Panorama, east of the currently unused train tracks, a thick mist rolls through the highway. Here, the sky darkens rapidly into night and the temperature drops. If you've traveled unprepared, presuming the heat in Panorama spreads into the Fringes, you'll find that's not so. A chill spreads into your bones and creeps up the back of your neck.

Then the ground rumbles. The tremors shake your vehicle. Maybe it even makes you lose control briefly or sends you swerving off-road, straight into the fields. And in the middle of the fog, you see it: a figure standing in the middle of the field. Behind it are a few houses, making up a tiny rural town. The houses are dilapidated, many crumbling. Supplies within are minimal, and many items are broken or spoiled.

Do you approach? Do you drive past? Merely staring for a second too long will be enough for the hitchhiker to choose you as its ride, but its appearance may not be all that keeps you in place. In the distance is another bigger shadow. A much bigger shadow. It looms in the distance without true mass or form. Within the void of its body, a searchlight sweeps over the misty town. It does not move. It simply looks while the ground shakes. Each time its light catches a glimpse of something that doesn't belong—an animal, a vehicle that drove too deep into the tall grass, a raider that went too far into town—a sonorous howl reverberates through the zone.

Then the shadow will teleport to its target and crush the intruder without mercy before retreating back to its watchful post. And the intruder is indeed crushed: any living organism caught by the Light Guardian will be flattened with a horrifying crunch of broken bones and squished organs.

Zone Effects
While the Light Guardian can't be defeated or confronted, you can outrun or hide from its sweeping beam. If you stop far enough on the side of the road, it won't notice you...but you can still watch as it mangles an unfortunate raider or traveler. Possibly, you see the spray of blood or hear the screams before you run. Perhaps you realize how easily you could've met your own gory fate.

If you've left your car and gone too deep into the town before you realize the danger, you can do one of two things: you can risk hiding in an abandoned house in the town and hope that the sunrise comes. In zones like this, the day/night cycle is unpredictable, and many places are permanently cast in darkness. Or, you can try to run back to your vehicle and pray you don't get caught.

Alternatively, you've plowed directly into the field when raiders in pursuit force you into the zone. Should fortune favor you, they'll be obliterated by the Light Guardian while you flee. The beam tracks quickly, but can only shine in one direction at a time so the key is to bob and weave.

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Hitchhikers

Anywhere

Not everyone who enters the diffusion zone will pick up a mannequin, but the possibility is there. Once you make first contact, you will gain a hitchhiker. Unlike most aspects of the diffusion zones, this one has gathered into a storm, meaning the effects will breach even normally stable and anchored strongholds like Panorama.

Some fluxdrifts will brush off your problems while a few might believe you. Others will offer solutions in their own way, including a doctor who'll pay to obtain strange plastic limbs. Not everyone will pitch in to help. The city's big, populated, and somebody on the street turning doll-like doesn't affect them (...until it does). They've got a job to get to and mouths to feed.

Unwanted Passenger

When do you first notice your passenger? At any point, really. Perhaps it goes like this:

You glance in the rearview mirror and glimpse a figure in the backseat. When you spin around, there's nobody there. Then it happens again. This time, you realize it's not a person, but a dummy. A mannequin. It's sitting upright. And is it...wearing a seatbelt? Or maybe it's thrown itself across the back bench as though somebody tossed it there, uncaring.

This time, when you look back, it's still there. You pull over and dump it on the side of the road. That's taken care of, you think. You drive some more. For a few hours or even a day or two—depending on how long you've traveled—you don't think much of it. Then suddenly, it's back. And it keeps coming back no matter how much you try to get rid of it.

Or it goes like this:

You return from a standard trip into a diffusion zone. It went pretty well, you think. You found some clothes at a creepy mall and now you're ready to get some sleep. When you open your trunk to retrieve your belongings, you notice a mannequin stuffed inside, limbs bent at odd angles. You're a little weirded out, but you decide to dump it on the street and move on.

You shower. In the bathroom mirror, the mannequin suddenly appears behind you. Over the next few days, this continues. The mannequin appears in a booth across the diner as you're eating your eggs. It's behind a shelf in the corner store. It's in your closet. Each time you check, it vanishes...but then, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's right there in plain view. It'll even let you throw it away, burn it, anything you can think of. But it always comes back.

However it plays out, you realize that people around you do notice it...sometimes. That doesn't mean anyone will believe you that things are just that weird. Most people have better things to do. They don't know you, after all, and even if they did, well, this place does have a habit of driving people a little crazy. Witnesses casually push the mannequin aside and tell you that's a funny prank. Your regular waitress pats your shoulder and suggests you get some sleep. You're not looking well. The shopkeeper demands you take that thing before you go. He's not responsible for your junk.

But there's a small chance you run into someone who seems to be going through what you are. Unfortunately, they seem to actually have it worse and aren't making much sense. Still, you can try questioning them and see what answers you get. At least, before you lose them for good. For some of you, the victim you run into is in especially bad shape...and you have to wonder how long before you end up the same.

Trading Places

For some of you, the mannequins might not do more than be a nuisance. While that's not ideal, either, it doesn't completely upend your life. Others are less fortunate. If you're one of the latter, you'll begin to notice symptoms.

The first time it happens, you're startled to hear the mannequin speak. To begin with, its voice might be guttural and unnatural, incapable of stringing more than a few words together. Then it seems to learn. It talks in full sentences. Its voice smooths out. It starts to sound more and more like you...right down to your speech patterns and accent. As symptoms progress with varying intensity—over days or weeks—you realize with dawning horror that you're losing parts of yourself. When you wash your hands, you notice a part of your skin is smooth and shiny. The next time the mannequin appears, its previously plasticky appearance is more flesh and blood.

Eventually, the mannequin becomes independent. It shops with your money. It steals while wearing a face that looks nearly identical to yours, especially from a distance. It calls your friend and says the things you would never say out loud to them. They're thoughts you've had, sure, but you know better than to hurt your friend's feelings...except apparently, you have. And now you can't even use your own voice to explain yourself. Your leg has been getting stiff. Your joints don't bend properly.

Meanwhile, the mannequin is now striding around smoothly. Its appearance is still uncanny and odd if anyone pays attention, but at a glance, it easily passes as a part of the crowd. As its final act, it's even absorbed small bits of your abilities if you have any. Not all of them, but enough to cause trouble. Throughout everything, you cannot harm your hitchhiker. Some unknown force stops you any time you think about it. You simply can't.

Related Incidents

The impact isn't contained only to those directly affected. The hitchhikers' influence spreads through the city. For some incidents, it's difficult to trace back to the source. For others, that's a little easier. Regardless, these occurrences could help you determine how to solve your own situation. Alternatively, if you've escaped unscathed, you can still find yourself dragged into a situation involving someone else.

Return to Sender

July 11 — The Forum: An anonymous poster contributes this bit of information that might catch the eye of those affected. You can try the same method, but it's a risk going back into the diffusion zones. No one can guarantee the specific zone you found the mannequin in is still standing. Further, you have to remember where you made contact to begin with.

If you decide to try it, be sure to take a friend. The less independent the hitchhiker, the more likely it will stick to your side even as you return it home. If the assimilation has progressed too far, though, you might have to utilize methods such as duct taping inside your trunk or strapping it down with ropes. It may struggle and say vile things to you or your companion.

Victimless Burn Victims

July 14 @ 03:00 — The Pavilion (East End): A handful of troublemakers grabbed some freaky mannequins wandering the street and, in a drunken stroke of genius, set them all on fire for no reason other than that they wanted to. Not only has this resulted in damage to the corner store nearby, but Enforcers have linked the incident to four hospitalizations at roughly the same time. Doctors from Saint Margery's Hospital (located in the Blocks) report that all four individuals suffered massive shock and claim to have endured unimaginable agony as if they had been "set on fire."

Curiously, none of them bear any physical wounds and, by all accounts, are completely fine (trauma aside). Notably, all four individuals were also suffering from various stages of "joint stiffness" and "hallucinations"...which have since completely vanished. You might wonder, is this the solution? Or perhaps the better question would be, is it worth it?

The Sculptor

July 15 — The Pavilion (Medical Clinic): Around July 14 onward, word begins to spread that a Dr. Maggie Wright (who insists on being called the Sculptor, though nobody seems to heed this request) will not only do an amputation for free, she will pay you for your limb if you are boasting an "unusual trophic change to the skin, resulting in a smooth and shiny texture." All she asks is she gets to keep the sample. Her promise is that she will study it to find a more permanent cure and, if she does, she will return the limb to you for reattachment.

Some end up trusting her. You wonder, maybe she could help? Dr. Wright will happily accept you as her patient if you agree. Her methods are indeed proper and sterile: she'll put you under and provide you with plenty of pain meds. She appears to have all of the equipment required to preserve the limb, too.

If you're suspicious, you can also pay her a visit, but you won't have much luck getting her in trouble or sniffing out any evidence of nefarious deeds. Her office hasn't got anything strange, she is indeed a real surgeon, and there are testimonials from patients who've had success under her care in the past. Plus, nobody's going to her who isn't doing so voluntarily (they've signed waivers)—even if you could argue how much desperation plays into their decision. Still...the thing about her "title" is a bit weird, right?

Dr. Maggie Wright is 5'2, Caucasian with a light Northeastern accent and silver hair often worn in a bun. She's in her 50s and looks fairly good for her age. Her voice is soothing. She has intense, wide blue eyes, which some might find unnerving, but that's not necessarily her fault.

∞ Notes ∞

• Mannequin contact is not required. Not everybody who goes into the diffusion will make first contact, and many won't. Characters can explore the mall, the temple, and the foggy field without ever picking up a hitchhiker.
• The diffusion zones described are only examples. Others will exist where mannequins can be found, including grocery stores, gas stations, abandoned parks, and more. You can make up your own, but check with us if you have any questions about limitations!
• The speed and intensity of all mechanics are entirely up to you. Generally, the earlier a character makes first contact, the more severe their consequences.
• Investigating the zones or helping others are perfectly fine ways to participate! Since the hitchhikers are meant to be more insidious, it won't be strange if your character isn't in the middle of the action right away or notices things a bit late.

Questions? Ask here

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Comments

arlecchino (the knave) | genshin impact | ota

[decussate]

A. Carpool

[ The Knave is carpooling with you. Her motorcycle isn't cut out for long distances, and so she offers to chip in with gas, provisions, whatever it is that will get her a ride. She makes a good passenger: perfectly content to either sit in complete and unmoving silence or chat to your heart's content about any number of things.

Everything is going well... until there's a long lull in the conversation, or the temperature becomes just right for a nap. It's a long drive, and even The Knave isn't immune to sleepiness; the faint shadows under her eyes would suggest that she may even be in more dire need of sleep than most. Her head begins to droop...

A trio of faceless, birdlike beings suddenly materialize within the car. They flit around like children at play, light as air, almost as if shooing away invisible annoyances. Of course, that means they'll flit around the driver as well, obscuring their vision in and out; there's only so much space in here. The Knave, meanwhile, will be dead asleep until some catastrophe occurs. Or she gets smacked in the face, that works too. ]

B. Friendly Fire

[ The Knave contracts her own mannequin — and from there, it becomes all too easy to see how they begin to infest the land in a slow creep. In the early days, she abuses her featureless mannequin in any number of ways: slicing, burning, even drowning, but to no avail. It always comes back and stands there menacingly. In truth, it doesn't bother her as much as it should; she's frequently haunted by phantoms, and this is just another. Still a problem to be taken care of, but not one that consumes her.

And so she thinks nothing of harming someone else's mannequin when it decides to cause mischief. She catches it tampering with her parked motorcycle when she returns, and immediately, she conjures a blade of crimson bloodfire and throws it at the offending mannequin's arm.

Little does she know that fire has more serious effects than it used to... ]

C. Mimicry

[ The Knave's mannequin has been around for much too long. As it takes on her memories and thought processes, it becomes wily — knowing just how to evade her in crucial moments, as well as how to push her buttons and force her to withdraw. Things reach a head when it begins to exhibit her bloodfire abilities, conjuring lines of crimson silk and crude, sharp tools.

The Knave's hunt for her mannequin intensifies even as she feels her own power diminishing. There are rumors of mannequins burned and victims hospitalized; a fitting solution to her problem, she'd say, if only she could find a way to raise her fire against her own mannequin.

She'll eventually find it with another person. Causing mischief, no doubt. By now, it bears an uncanny resemblance: The Knave's eyes, already an unnaturally stark black and crimson, are not so different from the flat plastic of the mannequin's. It speaks in her voice, adopts her mannerisms. Only a sheen of plastic, a telling stiffness, and a different set of clothes differentiate them.

If the mannequin speaks to someone Arlecchino has already met, it speaks smoothly, moves slowly, armed with a secretive smile as it attempts to get close. ]

Closer, now. There are some things you ought to know. I will not lie to you as she will; one hardly earns the title of Knave because of one's upstanding character. I'm sure you have questions...

[ Or — friend or stranger — the mannequin decides to make trouble in the most direct way possible: wanton assault. It stalks the streets, searching for those traveling alone. From the shadows, the flat crimson crosses of its eyes gleam briefly — and then the mannequin pounces, claw-like nails drawn to strike... ]

Move!

[ Only for the real Arlecchino to pounce on the would-be victim first. It's more of a tackle and tumble, really. An effort to get this person out of the way, especially if there's the faintest possibility that they might be able to help her kill this mannequin. (Though she may just be accidentally contributing to the chaos.) ]

D. Wildcard

[ I didn't have the chance to hit up the plotting post as much as I would've liked, so I'm still open to plotting! Feel free to hit me up at my plotting comment, DM me, or find me at chipsnfish. ]

C (fancy meeting you here)

[unsunder]

[ This is certainly one way to meet someone. Which is to say, Emet-Selch already had a sense that there were a pair of eyes on him, though whether human or mannequin it’s difficult to say. With these things taking on aspects of the people they’ve chosen to mimic down to their very souls, even his keen gaze isn’t enough to tell them apart sometimes.

He has a hand half-raised to stave off the attack, in whatever form it might come, but then someone comes flying in from the side and takes him out instead. Down he goes with a yelp and a tangle of long limbs. ]

Do you mind?

[ He didn’t need the assist, thank you! Though, there goes the mannequin, claws slicing at open air. ]

:eyes: HELLO AGAIN

[decussate]

[ It's hard to say whether she overestimated her mannequin or underestimated this beanpole-looking man... Both, probably. In any case, she evidently cares for his physical well-being but couldn't care less about his feelings, because she ignores his indignant remark for now.

She rolls off him smoothly enough at least, standing to face her mannequin. It chuckles, knowing what frustration simmers beneath the crafted calm on her face, and slowly begins to circle them. ]

What now, playing the hero? That's a farce better left to the stage. It's terribly unfair, you know. You left poor little Furina weeping on the streets — yet I'm the villain here.

[ The Knave gives her mannequin a long look. Then glances at the man she, admittedly, quite rudely tackled to the ground. Hopefully, he's back up on his feet by now...... because she's doing nothing to help him about it. ]

Apologies. [ Finally. ] Forgive my asking, but would you happen to be proficient with fire?

[ At this point, she's straight up asking people. The mannequin recognizes the desperation, because it begins to laugh at her a little too hard. ]

[unsunder]

[ Once this woman rolls off of him, Emet-Selch is indeed quick to get to his feet. This person is a stranger to him, so whatever her double has to say means little and less to him — besides, he imagines his own sins far outweigh those of anyone he's liable to meet here, like as not.

Gold eyes track the mannequin as it moves, far too human-like for his liking. Dealing with the shadow of a stranger has plenty of drawbacks, not least of which being he has no idea what this thing might be capable of. ]

I am.

[ He's proficient in most things, honestly. His eyes stay on the duplicate as he answers, ready for a reaction to those words. ]

I suppose I needn't warn you at this point how it will feel if I let this thing go up in flames.

[decussate]

[ The mannequin's laughter cuts off abruptly. Its expression trades places with The Knave — it becoming grim, while she smiles.

She doesn't need to voice a confirmation for the mannequin to know that it will come; no amount of physical pain will deter her from what she wants. It acts before she can respond, lashing out at Emet-Selch with a sweeping fan of crimson flame. A smokescreen of sorts, as the mannequin moves swiftly to retreat while it hopes he's distracted.

The flames won't harm The Knave given that they're the same sort that run through her veins, so she could attempt to shield the man, but his self-assurance implies it won't be necessary. She watches the mannequin's retreat instead. It leaps onto threads of crimson silk sparsely spun between buildings that weren't there before, a slight stiffness in its movements that bends the lines with poorly sprung weight. Soon the mannequin will ascend over the rooftops and disappear from the sight. ]

Are you still able, monsieur?

[ The Knave doesn't know his abilities, whether his fire is short- or long-ranged. But she figures it's worth asking. ]

[unsunder]

[ Since he was watching for some sort of retaliation, Emet-Selch need only lift a hand to shield himself from those flames. The barrier he conjures flashes, a ripple of light spreading over an otherwise unseen surface, but holds.

The mannequin moves to make its escape, honestly also expected, moving to ascend with all the awkwardness of a spider with missing limbs. ]

Aye, but you will owe me.

[ Favors are the currency of this place, after all. More than actual currency, in his estimation.

Lifting a hand, Emet-Selch does little more than snap his fingers, manifesting a mote of fire that rockets toward the mannequin's retreating form to strike it neatly between the shoulders. Another snap sends three more balls of flame, larger than before, after it to try and finish the job. ]

[decussate]

So I will.

[ If he wants a favor, then he'll have it. She expects nothing else in this place, and all the better if the arrangements are neatly spelled out. She isn't one to run away from her obligations.

The Knave watches the first burst of fire fly into the mannequin's shoulder blades and feels it just as keenly, staggering shortly as searing heat erupts across her shoulder blades. She's no stranger to intense flames; in her own world she was thrice-blessed with fonts of fire, each more divine than the last. But wielding fire isn't the same as letting her flesh become its fodder, and she's thrust fully into managing the intensity of that feeling as three more fireballs join the conflagration.

The mannequin burns majestically. It tumbles in the middle of its acrobatic act, silk limned with caught fire as it struggles to stop its fall. The thing doesn't scream, having neglected to steal away any pain receptors, but it hits the ground and writhes, animalistic, in an effort to put itself out.

Meanwhile, The Knave has dropped to one knee. Her nails cut deeply into her own face to ground herself amidst the pain. Above it all, she begins to laugh, deep and long. The picture of madness — but it's what she must do to keep her mind abreast over the sensation of her flesh sloughing from her bones. Contend with the pain, conquer it. This is no less than what she's done to other people countless times before. Let her live it, to better appreciate the next time.

With the mannequin's plastic shell running off in rivulets to pool on the floor, it finally accepts that there will be no escape. In a last-ditch effort, it throws itself at Emet-Selch, all wet smoking plastic and flaming scraps of clothing. ]

[unsunder]

[ He spares only the briefest glance to the woman at his side, watches her drop to a knee and laugh as though the sound is the only thing keeping her consciousness tethered to her frame as she feels the fire eat away her double as keenly as if the flesh were her own. Far be it from him to judge. He's felt the sting of death and agony far more times than he can count.

It will be over soon, anyroad. In some last-ditch, pathetic effort at vengeance, the mannequin, half-melted and charred, lunges at him.

Snap.

The flames still clinging to its frame suddenly roar to life as if they'd been doused in fuel, sending the mannequin up in a towering inferno, a white-hot flash of fire that turns what might be left of the creature into so much ash. It's there and gone again in the space of a breath, kind in how quickly it happens but cruel for the sheer intensity of it. This stranger does not have the mercy of a swift end to bear her away from the pain, but Emet-Selch doesn't feel particularly bad about it. She knew the risks, and found them worth it.

He gives her a few moments, at least, and doesn't wander away to leave her to her own devices. ]

Are you able to stand?

[decussate]

[ The abrupt intensity of that final flare seizes The Knave's senses by the neck and wrests her into a low curl. Her laughter dies in her throat as her vision flashes white, the sear of agony thrusting into the final vestiges of her being.

Mercifully, it passes quickly. The mannequin is no more — good riddance, an immediate balm on her mind — and so the pain releases its grip on The Knave, leaving only numbness and exhaustion in its wake. She kneels for a while longer, collecting herself just enough to know that when she stands again, she won't sway or stumble.

She's conscious of the man waiting there all the while. She doesn't assume it's out of the goodness of his heart. If he wants to get his favor from her sooner or later, he'll naturally need to know who she is. She finally stands slowly in answer to his question, collected and impassive. The blood that should be running from the self-inflicted lacerations on her face simply isn't there. ]

You have my thanks. That creature was quite the nuisance.

[ She won't complain about that last bit of extra fire. As he surmised, it was what she asked for. ]

[unsunder]

[ If naught else, she pulls herself together better than most people would after all that, and having seen what her mannequin is capable of, he is coming to the conclusion that she's no slouch. Quite the person to owe him a favor.

He does not offer her a hand up, and she does not seem to need it. He does note the lack of injury to her face as well. ]

One of many, it seems. You're not the first I've seen with such a problem, and I doubt you'll be the last.

[decussate]

Indeed.

[ Her mannequin is hopefully gone for good, but she may very well be annoyed by a dozen others. (At least she can commit violence on those.) This pest problem can't be over soon enough.

For now she sketches the lightest of bows, just enough to outline courtesy without deference. ]

I am The Knave. To whom do I owe the favor?

C!

[heritors]

[ The hitchhikers aren't overwhelming by any stretch of the imagination. The city continues to moves unfazed, most of its denizens left in relative peace. But it's not as though she doesn't know what's going on at this point, with the strange run-ins and the stranger reports and her own little follower occasionally appearing in the corners of her vision ( but always gone, before she can really do anything about it ).

It's enough to set her on edge; they're not destructive, but still harmful in their own right. She's not pleased about jumping straight to violence — she only carries the Falchion openly because she can't exactly hide a whole sword — but it's not as though most of the mannequins are exactly giving her a choice. It's not the first time she's had to strike down someone who looked like a friend. Someone who once was.

So, her body's coiled taut when she's stopped by — not her. Not really, despite the resemblance. Lucina's briefly glances to the side to see if Arlecchino herself is within sight before it returns to the mannequin. ]

I don't. [ ( She does, but not to it. ) Her voice is flat, gaze cold as she watches the hitchhiker approach. She reaches for the hilt of her sword. ] I have no interest in your lies.

[decussate]

[ The mannequin appears unaccompanied, at least for now. Its flat eyes twitch to Lucina's hand, but it remains undeterred, circling her slowly in a stately march. ]

How sweet. But you should know that one charitable deed does not make a person kind or trustworthy.

[ The voice is the same as Arlecchino's, but honeyed and weighted compared to the real deal's straightforward manner during Lucina's first meeting with her. The mannequin touches perfectly smooth fingers to its cheek in a facsimile of thoughtfulness, black plastic sheening. ]

Of course, you have no reason to trust me either. Allow me to pose a simple question instead: how many children is one person permitted to kill?

[heritors]

[ Her eyes are openly tracking the mannequin's movements as it goads and taunts — but otherwise she stays stock still, body only coiling tighter. She's generous with her trust, she knows, and the line between the generosity and naivete is thin. There will be a time when she, like her father, will be burned by it. And yet — her father would have trusted someone who offered kindness in a time she had no reason to. She will not live in isolation out of fear.

( There is a pause though. A brief beat of hesitation once the words and their implications register, and her jaw clenches. It takes conscious effort to stamp down the denial that rises in her throat. )

None of this matters unless it's from Arlecchino's mouth. ]

I'm not interested. [ Once more, with feeling. She unsheathes her sword, her stance shifting her downwards, body coiling in toward herself as if to strike ( it won't do anything; but if she can just incapacitate it, even for a few minutes— ). ] I suggest you take your questions elsewhere.

[decussate]

I think you know the answer, Lucina. But please, continue to play the fool. I'll be happy to enlighten you.

[ Lacking any real need to breathe, the mannequin will be happy to keep up the chatter throughout any fighting. It ends its prowl in a stance straight and tall, secure in the knowledge that a blade by itself will do no lasting harm. A crimson light glows in its hand — and suddenly, it falls to a knee to thrust a hand to the ground.

Tall crimson spikes shoot up from around Lucina's feet, a jagged, interlocking array aimed at trapping or injuring her enough to slow her. ]

I only care about your well-being. Not even her colleagues trust her, you know. Her "Mother" was graceful, benevolent, and liked by all — yet Peruere slaughtered her in madness, and seized all that would have been hers in time.

[heritors]

[ The mannequin drops to the ground, and she jumps — launches herself forward to close the distance between her and it. She can feel her back foot graze against the tips of the spikes, the sides of her boot tearing in the process, but her choice has been made. The momentum carries her until she's behind Arlecchino's mannequin, her body low to the ground.

It won't be the first time she's had to strike someone that wears the face of a friend. Apparently it won't be the last; but the Risen, for all the horrific implications they carried, couldn't speak. Lucina grits her teeth, baring her teeth at the thought of it caring about her well being, and aims for a swing right across its middle.

Then, a gamble: ] Arlecchino! [ She yells loud enough to cut through noise from the gathering crowd. There's not a lot she knows about her — even with the secrets it's spilling on her behalf — but she can't imagine someone like her letting the monstrosity run around unchecked. Might as well hurry the process along if she's nearby and searching. ]

[decussate]

[ Only a careful chosen few in this world know Arlecchino's name: Wriothesley, Lucina, Arlecchino's spider friend Henry, and now this random crowd of people...... mystery is truly dead.

Lucina's blade digs deep into the mannequin's side — and the mannequin uses that to its advantage, closing an iron grip around the sword like a vise to keep it there. It turns to fix its decussated eyes fix on Lucina, some new mockery on its lips.

From the blue comes a whirling blade. It strikes the ground by Lucina's hand, burying itself upright for her to take: a sword of similar size and shape to hers, but wicked around the edges, and a familiar crimson laced with black. The heat it emanates is obvious from Lucina's distance — the ground smokes vaguely where it's buried, weeds already catching fire — but should she take it, the grip won't scald her.

The mannequin's gaze shifts to the new sword with alarm. It lunges across to steal it away, but the sword in its side hinders its movement. ]

[heritors]

[ Needs must, Arlecchino, needs must.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't ever let go of the Falchion; but it hasn't been normal circumstances in a while. She'd have fought for it tooth and nail if it wasn't for what's embedded in the ground — she nearly jumped back to dodge, before her eyes flit to its shape, the length. The familiar-unfamiliar crimson and black that's identical to what the mannequin attacked her with, and yet—

It takes effort to stamp down the sudden tightness in her chest and focus, but she manages ( there's stakes to it now; if the mannequin gets away, it will take her sword with her; and that can't ever be a possibility ). Barely pauses before she takes the sword with one hand — not once did she think that the sword would burn her — then both.

There's a grunt as she shifts to lunge forward, then ... nothing. She's frozen in place, the sword refusing to budge towards the mannequin. Her eyes widen. ]

[decussate]

[ The mannequin freezes in the same moment that Lucina does, clearly expecting a blow. When it doesn't come, it huffs a laugh. Then it thrusts a hand to lift Lucina by the throat and hurl her against a nearby wall hard enough to crack the bricks. A needless action by design; this is, after all, a performance to smear reputations and incite reactions, and the presence of that crimson sword naturally means the nearby presence of the person who supplied it.

The mannequin walks after Lucina slowly. At the same time, it dislodges her sword from its side and flips it around to a proper grip, inspecting it properly for the first time. ]

Oh? A teardrop. Just like that symbol in your eye. How... nostalgic.

[ And clearly, a sign of significance between sword and owner. The mannequin smiles at a quaint new thought. ]

It's time I took my leave, but I did so enjoy the chat. I'm even thinking of taking a little souvenir.

[ It gives the sword a deft swipe that stops at an unnatural jerk. ]

Though I could be persuaded to leave it behind. If... you could be persuaded to beg for it, Miss Lucina.

[heritors]

[ She's thrown against the wall in a flash — the impact makes her teeth ring, the wind knocked out of her. Ends up on one knee with her head spinning as she blinks, hard, deep breaths in and out of her mouth. It hurts to stand; it always does, after something like this. She does it anyway, shoulders slumped over, the bricks carrying a bulk of her weight, the sword used as a make shift gain as she regains her balance.

Her eyes flicker up just enough to catch the heels come into view. The offer ( the threat— ) carries over buzzing in her ears, and straightening out even further to really look at the Falchion in the thing's hand, a dainty hand on its blade.

She sees red.

Lucina lunges, again. Stupid of her considering the last attempt didn't work, but the wild desperation in her eyes makes it clear that it doesn't matter. The sword pierces the mannequin through its chest. She carries the momentum and angles the sword down, embedding the tip in the asphalt. The pommel presses against her shoulder as she pants, looking right into flat, black eyes. ]

Over my dead body. [ As she wretches the Falchion away from its grip. ]

[decussate]

[ Surprise manifests yet again on the mannequin's face. So sure was it that the strike wouldn't land that it didn't bother attempting a parry. By the time it registers the blow, it's split nearly in twain, twin trails of flame licking at the new canyon in its body.

Perhaps unexpectedly for a mannequin, blood runs from the wound as well. It falls in a thick crimson rivulet -- and as the mannequin stumbles unsteadily backward, the blood reverses its course as well, collecting into a facsimile of a clot over the broad raw openings of its "flesh."

It knows when it's beat. It makes up for its lost stability by simply catapulting itself away, body abandoning any semblance of humanity as it disappears oddly over a nearby rooftop. Arlecchino's quiet laughter lingers in its wake... though it comes from much lower than the rooftop, drifting from the depths of a nearby alleyway.

Arlecchino braces herself against a building, one hand clutched to her chest where Lucina pierced the mannequin through. Much of her body feels aflame -- more than usual -- ironically caused by the very same bloodfire she supplied. It's the kind of thing she has no choice but to laugh at, the better to battle the grip of blinding pain that blazes down her body. It's all a farce, in any case; her flesh is intact, and the sear will soon pass.

For now...

Her usual modus operandi at this point would be to vanish with the knowledge that danger has passed, but Lucina is owed a bit more than that. Arlecchino pushes herself off the wall and emerges from the alleyway to give the loosely assembled crowd a look that sends the majority scattering. With that done, she approaches with all her usual composure, heels clicking steadily. ]

Lucina.

[ First things first: a check-up. ]

C / Wildcard

[faithfall]

[ Adrian does his best not to travel alone, having learned his lesson all too well, but on occasion these things are unavoidable. He's been lucky enough to avoid any raiders, and he hopes that the rest of the trip will be equally uneventful.

He only means to stop at the temple for long enough stretch his legs and top up the gas before continuing on to the mall. After all, he's promised Fern that he won't go inside alone, and he'll do his best to keep that promise, even despite the way it seems to call to him. When he steps out of his van, there are only a couple of other vehicles in the lot, left in such a state that he can never be sure if they belong to anyone.

He doesn't see anyone or anything out of place, and the silence of it all is nearly eerie. He climbs out, cautious but tired from the drive. When he closes the door, a woman is standing there. Adrian yelps, he's so startled by her sudden appearance. He recognizes her eyes, has time enough to process who she is — does her skin have a strange plastic sheen? — and then she lunges for him.

Despite the curse that usually slows his reaction, this time he manages to utter his incantation and scramble back. ] Enkindle.

[ Light flashes behind his head, blindingly bright, two golden circles appearing like an eye studded with radial spikes. The glow intensifies within seconds, everything near him suddenly searing with radiant heat that leaves the asphalt smoking. It won't kill anything, but it does seem to slow her down long enough for Adrian to put a little more distance between them. ] Why—?

[ Has the Knave lost her mind? Or is this something else? She hadn't seemed interested in harming him when they had first met, but he hadn't been sure.

Perhaps she was only playing with her food. ]

[decussate]

[ "The Knave" keeps its distance from the spell, gauging the intensity of the heat. But as the effects fade, it laughs mockingly, pointed gaze sharpening again on Adrian. ]

"Why" hardly matters, now does it? You should ask "what" you'll be doing to escape with your life.

[ It begins walk at him, leisurely. One patient step at a time. ]

I'll give you one last chance. Struggle all you like, and show me the power of that kindness you wished on me before.

[ There is no promise that the mannequin will endure whatever Adrian has left to throw at it. The moment he makes his move, so will "The Knave" — making use of the bloodfire it's stolen, whether through conjured scythe or wicked earth-driven spikes.

Meanwhile...

The Actual Knave pauses as she steps out of the temple, attention piquing. Voices in the distance, traveling far over the silence of the scene. Badgered as she's been by her mannequin, she has cause to investigate quickly; she sprints smoothly for the parking lot. ]

[faithfall]

[ He doesn't know her. After that first night when she'd killed those thieves in the blackout, they'd only seen each other in passing. She was polite enough, and Adrian had returned the greetings in kind, but her smile still sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine.

He's afraid of her, certainly, but perhaps not for the right reasons. Her words haven't left him: He who is brutal first often emerges the victor. What can he possibly say to change her mind, if the world has already left her with such a cold impression? Can he even be certain that she's so wrong, when his life has been so sheltered? It would make more sense to steer clear of her entirely, but the stubborn part of him still wonders: if really believes that, why has she spared anyone at all? Is this really her?

Adrian has stared death in the face often enough to recognize it when he sees it, and thoughts of speaking sense into her flee as she begins to move toward him. He reacts on instinct; light spills from behind him. His wings burst forth, spreading wide to pull him up into the darkening sky.

Raphael, show her your— A shard of red disrupts the spell before he can finish the cast, piercing through the center of his right hand mid-gesture. Adrian cries out, and after that instinct takes over entirely. She's incredibly fast, deadly and fluid, but he's dealt with that before. For someone so reluctant to fight, he's certainly capable of keeping a level head even when he knows he's far outmatched.

He uses his wings to avoid the edges of her blood red spikes, his fingers contorting with every cast even as his hand bleeds freely, staining the white of his shirt. He summons a wall of light to blind her, weaving out of her line of sight, only to pull white hot spears from his construct and hurl them at her when she tries to get close. Even still, he only aims to wound her, and not to kill her. She does not return that favor.

When he hits her, he can smell the chemical scent of burnt plastic, but it's not nearly enough to stop her. Adrian is more resilient than his delicate frame might suggest. He knows where he can take a blow to avoid a fatal injury if he must, but he still takes far more damage than he deals. Eventually, his hand seizes in the middle of a cast, and it's all the opening she needs to send her spikes through his wings and drag him down to the pavement, pinning him there. He doesn't get up again.

He coughs, tasting blood, fighting for breath. Punctured lung. A half-dozen wounds that have missed major arteries, non-lethal but non-trivial. That's not ideal, Adrian thinks dimly.

He can hear her footsteps moving towards him, even if he can't see her now. ] Don't... have to do this.

[ Whether she's the real Knave, being taken over by plastic, or simply a monster wearing her skin — there isn't much he can do, now. He might as well try to reach her one last time. ]

[decussate]

[ It's easy enough to pinpoint the site of battle; flashy lights and an airborne struggle are akin to a stage spotlight. The Knave arrives in time to witness the height of the violence: a winged form wrenched from the air by crimson spikes, the act sharp and brutal in its efficiency. She watches clinically, if with a touch of annoyance at the clear handiwork of her mannequin with its pilfered bloodfire. It's a creature too crafty and dangerous — behavior likely modeled after her own. She would feel pity for the past recipients of her attentions if they hadn't been so utterly deserving.

Speaking of, it seems the mannequin has pinned its prey to the earth like a butterfly on a board. In that moment, the mannequin meets The Knave's eyes across the parking lot with a dark mirth. It directs a mocking bow in her direction... before unceremoniously turning around and walking away. Flaunting her inability to act against it, of course. It knows that her emotions won't be swayed by simple acts of delinquency, even should they be done in her image. But with increasing intensity and frequency, even The Knave might feel a need to take responsibility.

For now, there seems to be someone dying in the parking lot. Someone familiar, in fact: that idealistic fellow from the apartments, Adrian. Even so, there's a lack of urgency as she approaches him, his wrung out words dragging themselves over the stillness of the lot. Conventional wisdom would hold that he's already a dead man; the thorn of bloodfire piercing his lung is much more than she could attempt to address with first aid alone. He could breathe his last at any moment... and those are the words he'd waste his precious seconds on?

She would think this merely a pathetic attempt to guilt trip his killer, had he not spoken as he did when they parted last. On death's door, does he truly concern himself with the cleanliness of her soul? A laughable notion.

She finally arrives at his side, uncaring of whether he thinks her real or mannequin in the haze of his injury. There's little he can do to her in this state either way. ]

Spare me your supplications.

[ Harsh, blunt, unlike the lyrical mockery of her mannequin. She eyes Adrian's state, feels the responsiveness of the stake of blood running through him. ]

You are a healer, yes? So heal.

[ That's all the warning he gets, and the one second she grants him to process it, before the spike piercing him abruptly slithers back into the earth. She could be gentler, perhaps make an attempt to double-check his capabilities — but when a man's lung is in jeopardy, there's little room for conversation. If he can heal himself, then he will; if he cannot, then he'll die as he would have anyway. It's as simple as that.

... Though... The Knave will assist in the one way she can think of. The instant after she forces the mannequin's spike away, her own true bloodfire manifests to stop the gaping holes left in its wake. Her blood is searing, molten in the split second it takes to flow over Adrian's wounds, before rapidly cooling to a semi-solid, almost comforting warmth. It should be enough to plug his wounds on the surface for now. ]